Кобо Абэ - The Ark Sakura

On the middle level was a cubbyhole with a complex jumble of irregular undulations, less like a room than a model for a fallen castle. I kept all sorts of supplies there, from hardware to everyday items like razors, soap, toothpaste, as well as medicine, bandages, and other first-aid supplies. There were also rechargeable batteries, light bulbs, solid alcohol for fuel, film, a whetstone, solder and soldering iron, adhesive, assorted fishing line, fire extinguishers. If I didn’t get busy and make a list of everything, I was in danger of losing track of it all myself.

The lowest level was the most comfortable. This was not mere storage space but a real room, with seven chairs, a table, a slide projector, and a screen. The front wall, moreover, was hung with a large rough sketch of the quarry, which I had made two weeks before — too soon to include the results of my latest survey. Still, as a three-color ground plan, it wasn’t too bad.

On the adjacent wall were twenty-eight gas-and-smoke masks; wrench, hammer, crowbar, and other tools that could double as weapons; thirty-five twelve-volt batteries. Along the opposite wall were seven small automatic guns — remodeled toys — along with empty cartridges and boxes of ammunition, raw materials for gunpowder, five crossbows and one hundred and two arrows. In addition, there was a box of sand marked, in large letters, SAND FOR FIRE EXTINGUISHING. Inside the sand there were forty-three leftover sticks of dynamite, which I intended to leave hidden right there for the time being. All I had to do was plant a flag next to the map, and the room would look exactly like one of those underground strategic command headquarters you see in the movies. What sort of flag would look best — the Rising Sun? I have a feeling that’s not it. I’ve never given the matter deep thought, but somehow I have a feeling no flag would look quite right.

“He doesn’t seem to be anywhere in here.” The girl stood in front of the map, studying it with her head tilted sharply sideways, as if she couldn’t tell which way was up. “Although it’s not surprising, with that entrance.”

“You’re well prepared, I’ll grant you that.” The insect dealer ran a finger over the tabletop, then rubbed the accumulated dust on his trousers, twisting his lower lip as he spoke. “Still, isn’t there something a little childish about your taste in furnishings?” Evidently a reference to the model guns. Did he really think they were there just for decoration? Then let him go on thinking so.

“Supposing he went down the ceiling tunnel,” said the girl, her head still sideways as she traced the surface of the map with a finger. “That’s this black line, right?”

“All the parts I explored myself are in black. The red lines are hypothetical, based on a map done by the quarry companies, on file in the city hall. Strange, don’t you think? — they overlap, but there are no actual points of congruence. Probably because everybody ignored the agreement, and went off digging on their own. Small wonder the roof caved in.”

“And the blue lines?”

“The solid ones are canals and waterways, the dotted ones are underground veins of water.”

“By the time you need firearms, it’s always too late.” The insect dealer picked up a crossbow and aimed it at the map. “Those black lines go off the bounds of the map.”

“I’ll add on the rest as the need arises.”

“I’ll bet he’s left the bounds of the map too,” said the insect dealer.

The girl turned around and shrieked, “Stop that! It’s dangerous!”

“No, it isn’t — it’s not loaded.” As he spoke, the insect dealer pointed the weapon directly at her face. “But it feels awful, doesn’t it? Even when you know it’s a joke, it still does. There’s just something about firearms I don’t like. They never settle anything, anyway.”

“Quit preaching; it doesn’t suit you,” I said, adding, “Look, they’re only model guns. And the crossbows are for rodent control.”

The girl came around the table, reached out an arm, and flicked the bowstring. “Can you really shoot rats with one of these?” she asked.

“Sure. If you hit one square, you could knock it dead.” The insect dealer held the bow down with his foot, and slipped the bowstring in place. Deftly he fitted in an aluminum arrow and set up the sight, adjusting for distance before handing it to her. “Go ahead and try it,” he said. “When you look through the hole, the target should be sitting on top of the sight.”

“I don’t know why, but it scares me a little.”

“There’s nothing to it, because it has no kick, unlike gunpowder.” He set an empty cigarette carton lengthwise on the back of a chair some thirteen feet off. “Here’s your target. Don’t make any conscious effort to keep your arm steady. Just relax, take a breath, and hold it.”

There was the snap of the string being released, and — beginner’s luck, of course — a bull’s-eye. The cigarette carton was in pieces, and the arrow, having shot clean through it, ricocheted back off a wall. She twisted and whooped in triumph.

“Wow, I hit it! Is it okay if I borrow this for a while?”

“Sure,” I said. “Those are legal.” My feelings were mixed. In line with the insect dealer’s opinion, my prize stockpile of weapons was beginning to seem terribly juvenile. “Hunting is forbidden, but you can use them for fishing.”

“Where can you fish?” She was holding up the crossbow and aiming through the sight this way and that. “Feels a little heavy. But it seems to have a lot more power than an airgun.”

“The only trouble is, it’s not suited for live combat,” said the insect dealer; unhesitatingly he selected an Uzi sub-machine gun from the gun rack, and gave its barrel a few meaningful pats. “Loading it takes too much time. If you’re conducting a preemptive strike, with plenty of time to aim so your first shot scores, well and good; but in combat, you’d probably be better off with a slingshot. A crossbow is capable of inflicting a mortal wound only if fired at a range of one hundred feet or less, so if your first shot misses you have to fall back on your fists. This Uzi, now, is another story.”

“You seem to know enough about it. Where did you learn all that?” I asked.

“I wasn’t in the Self-Defense Forces for nothing. But, Captain, aren’t you the one who knows a hell of a lot? Your average person wouldn’t think of an Uzi. That’s not used by regulars so much as it is by commandos.”

“Come on, it’s only a toy. While I was watching the news about the Reagan assassination attempt, I noticed the Secret Service men were all using them. I liked the small size and the design, that’s all.”

“Sorry, I don’t buy it. This has been converted into a real gun.” He scraped the rust off the cocking bolt, sniffed the muzzle, and peered at the breechblock, then stuck in a finger and explored the interior. “And I’ll be damned if it hasn’t been test-fired. Some guts. No cracks or other damage, so it must have been a success, too. What is it? Single-loading? Semiauto? Don’t tell me it’s an automatic.”

“Pull out the magazine and have a look. Toy bullets.”

“Give up,” he said. “So you stuck in a couple of blanks for camouflage, and for warning shots. Very smart. But I have news for you — back in your cabin, around that machine, there were metal shavings on the floor. Right? As I said, I didn’t sign up for the SDF for nothing. I always liked guns. I knew right away what you’d been up to.”

Further protest seemed futile. The third shot, and all the rest, were in fact real cartridges, albeit homemade. “You know your way around guns, all right,” I commented.

“Want me to check them out for you?”